Reaper's Legacy: Book Two (Toxic City)(62)
Lucy-Anne holds up her hands, but she cannot speak. She tries to back away from Nomad, but her feet will not obey her. She can do nothing as the woman runs closer, jumping past a burning motorcycle whose flames barely seem to touch her.
In the distance, gunfire. Closer by, the sound of heavy footsteps. Bullets strike the road and kick up gravel and dust.
Everything seems to be converging on her.
Nomad reaches her and does not stop running. She knocks Lucy-Anne to the ground and sits astride her, raising one hand high above her head with two fingers pointing down, like a child forming its hand into a gun.
This is my dream, Lucy-Anne thinks, and whatever happens next I can just dream away.
Nomad's hand strikes down and her stiff fingers punch a hole directly into Lucy-Anne's throat.
But this is my…
Jack had been wrong. A terrible thing was not about to happen. He thought perhaps it already had.
“He's laughing even though he's lost,” Jack said.
“Guy looks seriously screwed,” Sparky said. “Your old man do that to him, mate?”
Jack caught Reaper's eye. Reaper looked as hard and determined as ever, but a shadow of doubt shaded his eyes. He was not quite as in control of this situation as he'd hoped.
“The first move they make, kill them,” Reaper said, and he started forward.
“Jenna!” Jack said urgently. His friend nodded because she knew exactly what he wanted—she came to him and took the girl, hugging her close even though she stank. Jack saw the sympathy in his friend's eyes and loved her even more.
Jack started forward and Sparky came with him. Behind them were Breezer and the Irregulars. Fleeter walked close with Reaper, exaggerating the swing of her hips and enjoying the moment, even after what they had just seen and done. As they approached the first of the terrified soldiers she flipped, and the air boomed as it filled the space she had occupied. The Choppers glanced around in a panic. She could have been readying to gut any one of them.
From up on the container stacks, four soldiers were lowered roughly to the ground, their twisted and broken weapons dropping with them. One of them cried out as he struck the ground, and Jack heard the sickening sound of breaking bone. Puppeteer, he thought. At least he hadn't killed them. He caught movement from the corner of his eye and knew that Shade was there also, and perhaps a couple of other Superiors he had yet to meet.
This felt very much like the final confrontation, and though they were all there and Miller was exposed, Jack was certain that somehow they no longer had the advantage.
Reaper turned to Jack and Breezer and said, “You two and me. Seems appropriate.” He walked towards Miller, and Jack and Breezer went with him. They were representatives of their alliance—Irregular, Superior, and Jack from outside. As they closed on Miller, Jack knew he had to speak first.
“The New are united against you and everything you've done. And you've lost, Miller.”
In the doorway before them, Miller laughed again. This close he was grotesque, only part of a man. Yet his laughter was heartfelt, and Jack thought perhaps he wasn't yet mad.
“You've lost, Jack,” he said. “All of you were lost, from the moment Doomsday ended and we took control of London. We've been letting your father and his cronies have their fun since then, but your end was inevitable. You just didn't know it.”
“Shut up,” Reaper said. “Shade?” Shade appeared behind Miller and pressed a knife across his throat. Miller tensed and grew quiet, but the laughter did not leave his eyes.
Jack should have waited. There might have been guards hiding in there with machine guns at the ready, or traps designed to gut the unwary. But he could not wait, not after all this time. He grabbed Miller's wheelchair and used it to haul himself up into the container, pushed past Shade, and entered the shadowy interior.
After seeing inside the other place he'd expected something high-tech. What he saw was the exact opposite. Inside the first container was a rough seating area, with chairs around the edges, a few camping tables scattered with polystyrene cups and food wrappers, and a gun rack on one wall. At the far end were several camp beds, with a curtained area that might have been a toilet. The floor was messed with sawdust and lined with tracks from Miller's wheelchair.
Two Choppers stood facing Jack, guns in their hands. He reached for the pistol in his belt and drew it slowly, keeping a careful watch on their faces, eyes, hands. But they looked terrified. If they move I'll just flip, he thought, or shout, or I'll melt their gun barrels before they can even shoot.
As the pistol left his belt, the two Choppers dropped their guns and edged around him towards the door.
“Get out,” Jack said. They scampered away, and he watched Shade kick them out past Miller's wheelchair.
A heavy curtain hid a doorway into the middle container. He grabbed it and pulled it aside, hooks squealing on the metal curtain pole to reveal a poorly lit area with heavy cages stacked on either side. They resembled large dog crates, and were fixed in place by roughly welded metal bars.
The cages held people.
“Mum!” Jack called. “Emily!”
There was movement in the shadows as the prisoners stirred, trying to stretch limbs against their confinement. The place stank of human waste, unwashed bodies, gone-off food. Hopelessness. Jack's eyes watered from the smell, and from tears of rage.